Tell Me Something Good
by Ffup
Summary: It has been two long years since Will Traynor died when Louisa Clark receives a surprise on her doorstep.


**Tell Me Something Good**

 ** _13.8.2011_**

As I finished writing the date on my notebook, something pricked at my memory, trying to remind me that today was somehow significant. I shrugged off the feeling and concentrated on the lesson. It was probably just somebody's birthday that I'd forgotten about. Maybe Mark's. He had told me he was going to a party tonight, hadn't he? Strange that he hadn't mentioned it was _his_ party, but that had to be it. I'd congratulate him later and apologize profusely for not getting him at least a card. What a great friend I was.

I shifted in my seat and tried to get more comfortable. It was warm in the auditorium and I could feel my shirt sticking onto my back like glue. The air conditioning must have been out of order once again, as it always seemed to be when the weather was particularly hot. August had initially rolled in with cold rain and strong winds but they had cleared out as suddenly as they had come, as if summer had remembered it was not quite its time to retire for the year yet. It made up for its negligence with the sunniest and hottest days of the season. I was sweating day and night, taking long trips to the grocery store's frozen products section, a blessed relief from the heat. But I tried not to complain. Soon summer would have to give way to autumn and we'd be cursed with heavy downpours for weeks on end. Sure, there would be gorgeous days with all the hues from the red and yellow spectrums, but they'd be far in between, bittersweet reminders of what autumn could be like, what it probably _was_ like somewhere in the world. On those rare, beautiful days I would walk under the golden canopy of some park, pretending I was in France, or perhaps Germany, where there must be an endless supply of days wreathed in colour.

I pulled myself out of my thoughts as the teacher finally managed to get her papers in order and started lecturing us about the history of fashion in the 20th century. The course was drawing to a close in a couple of weeks and we had finally reached the 90s. I had signed up for the summer course to fill up my days with something to do while I worked the weekends and evenings at a sophisticated café near my flat. The café wasn't as cosy as The Buttered Bun and the customers were less talkative, but it paid enough money for me to support myself during my studies. So I put on my friendliest smile for the business ladies and hipster boys, and tried not to let it fade when they didn't return the gesture.

While I was taking notes on ground-breaking designers and the fashion trends of the 90s – I smiled as I fiddled with the choker around my neck – I kept glancing at the date at the top of the page, its familiarity taunting me. A memory was nagging at my brain, insisting on being remembered. Another part of my brain whispered that I did _not_ want to remember, that it was something painful, something that should not be unleashed.

And so the lesson went on. I glanced at the clock every 15 minutes or so, not because I was bored and couldn't wait for the class to end, but because I was actually rather enjoying myself and I wanted to check we still had time to talk about colourful windbreakers and platform shoes. I loved learning about fashion with a passion. I couldn't believe that once I had been content on staying in the small town I was born in, not daring to spread my wings. One drunken evening, a group of guys and a maze had managed to chain me down and make me afraid to face the world. It _had_ also turned me back to my distinguishable fashion sense which was frowned upon in the small circles back home but appreciated the moment I entered my first class in college. But still, it had taken years and one extraordinary man in a wheelchair to realize…

Suddenly the memory that had been trying to break free from its confines smashed down my mental defences with the force of a nuclear explosion.

 _13_ _th_ _of August. It has been two years._

The painful memory grabbed my heart in its icy grasp and I winced, which sent the pen in my hand flying through the air. Nobody turned to look as I scrambled after it, there being hardly a lesson where I didn't demonstrate my aptitude for clumsiness. Their ignorance was a relief because I wasn't sure I managed to keep a neutral face as a memory after memory wanted to make its presence known. All I could do was fight desperately against the tears for the remaining 10 minutes of the class.

 _It has been two years since you let the person you loved die without being there for him in his final moments. Two years since you let him go without a proper goodbye._

 _It was too painful._

 _You called him selfish but are you any better? You put your pain ahead of his wishes. You let him die thinking you hated him._

"Shut up."

This time, a number of people did turn to look at me and with horror, I realized I had actually uttered it out loud. The teacher didn't look impressed with my outburst.

"Oh, no, no, no, I didn't mean _you_ ," I explained hastily, "I was talking to myself! You see, my brain wouldn't keep quiet and I just wanted to concentrate on the wonderful and _very_ interesting lesson. By no means did I mean to interrupt but clearly my mouth had other ideas. Please, don't let my outburst stop you from telling us more about this brilliant and… and interesting – I already said interesting, didn't I?" the teacher was giving me a look that told _me_ to shut up and so the rest of my babbling came out as a mumble, "subject. Sorry."

"Now, as I was saying…" The teacher continued as if nothing had happened and I forced myself to take notes for five more minutes. When the class was dismissed, I was the first one out of the doors, leaving the suffocating air of the auditorium behind me.

Just as I was about to burst through the front doors into the sunlight, I heard somebody call my name.

"Lou!"

It was Mark.

I turned to face him, forcing a smile on my face and hoping he wouldn't notice the tightness around my eyes.

"Where are you off to? You were storming through the halls like a madwoman. I practically had to run to keep up with you." He laughed, showing off his slightly crooked smile.

"Oh? Sorry, I didn't realize. I just needed some fresh air as quickly as possible."

"The bloody AC acting up again?" Mark asked as he held the door open for me.

"Yeah."

I took in a deep breath as I stepped outside and let it out with a count to ten. I repeated this a couple of times. It didn't drive the memories from two years ago away, but it helped me feel slightly less shaken up.

"You okay?" Mark was standing next to me, not looking at me directly as I collected myself.

"Yeah, it's… it's nothing. I'll be fine."

"Lou, you know you can tell me anything, right?"

I nodded and smiled at him gratefully. Our friendship wasn't necessarily the most uncomplicated one. We had met during my first spring at college, at a party where I had been drinking shots of vodka like they were water. During that time in my life, most of the weekends were spent at parties like that as I revelled in the blissful ignorance only alcohol could bring. I drank anything as long as it blurred my memories and made me forget why I was drinking in the first place. Of course, the relief was only temporary and the pain always came back, bringing blinding headaches and the taste of bile with it. But I learnt that a headache was much easier to cure than a broken heart and so the weekends melted away into blurry images and nothingness.

Mark didn't drink but he had come to the party as a designated driver for his friends. I had collided into him when my legs wouldn't carry me any longer, on my way to get yet another drink. He had been sensible enough to take me home and decent enough not to take advantage of my drunken state. He had left his number on a piece of paper along with a request that I should accompany him for a lunch as a thank you. I did.

The first weeks had been awkward. Mark was a shy literature student and I was morbidly embarrassed by how he had had to help me home. But he was a good influence on me. He would accompany me to parties until I realized they weren't really helping my healing process. Instead, Mark brought back the love of reading in me which I had forgotten about during the grey days after _that_ day exactly two years ago. I found out that vodka wasn't the only thing capable of numbing pain, that immersing yourself in the hardships' of others could make you forget just as well. And slowly, without really noticing it, reading about heartbreaks had begun to stitch my own shattered heart back together. The wounds would still hurt from time to time, but the pain wasn't all-consuming. I could breathe again.

"I was thinking about… you know, _him_ ," I said finally, avoiding his name for both of our sakes.

Mark shuffled his feet and didn't quite meet my eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. "Ah, right."

After the awkwardness from the beginning of our friendship had worn off, I started noticing that Mark's feelings for me weren't perhaps entirely platonic. I would catch him staring at me when we were watching a film and he would laugh at my jokes a little too long. He was a good-looking bloke with his wavy blonde hair and sea-green eyes that lit up when we discussed books we had read. I liked spending time with him and I couldn't deny I didn't like him. So we went out on a date. It didn't go well.

Mark wasn't the first guy I went out with nor was he the last. There were plenty of men in a big city like Manchester who were attracted to my bubbling personality and deviant taste in clothes. At first I answered "yes" to everyone who asked me out because I was desperate to fill the gaping hole in my chest. However, the more guys I saw the more I realized I was comparing them – albeit subconsciously initially – to _him_. None of the men had _his_ charm nor wit. None of them had mastered the confident smirk quite like _he_ had. No one could challenge my mind and engage me in a conversation like _he_ could.

Mark was not an exception.

The date had ended with me rushing off in tears after telling him "I can't do this". He had come after me and consoled me. Eventually, I opened up to Mark about _him_. Mark had been silent for a long time but finally he had asked if I ever could love somebody else the way I loved _him_. I told him the truth.

I couldn't.

Mark didn't abandon me like my other dates did. He never asked me out again and over time we built a strong friendship. He moved on and dated other girls, which I was happy about. _He_ was, however, still a touchy subject neither of us liked to talk about.

"It has been two years since he died."

"You mean killed himself."

I glared at him warningly as we started off towards the tram station.

"I'm sorry, but I find it hard to find sympathy for the guy." Mark knew to avoid saying _his_ name. "I saw the state you were in, all thanks to his selfish wish to be done with everything. That's messed up."

"It's not that simple." I wasn't sure why I was defending _him_. Mark was right, after all.

"Of course it is. If he truly loved you, he should've stuck around."

"I guess he didn't love me then." My voice broke a little at the end, but I tried to cover it up with a cough. It was fruitless. Mark had noticed. He stopped and made me turn to face him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. To be honest, I'm not sure how I meant it. All I know is that it makes me angry that he could leave somebody as kind and loving as you behind without a second thought. And then you were left with nothing but a bitter taste in your mouth and the pieces of your broken heart. I don't like that. I'm not even a violent person but I would punch the guy if I had the chance."

"Well, you won't. He's dead. Has been for two years."

Mark probably picked up on my sullen mood and so we kept walking.

"So what are you up to tonight? Billy is having a party and I thought maybe you'd like to come along? It's going to be relaxed, just a bunch of mates having a good time. Christy's coming as well. She'd be happy to see you." Christy was Mark's current girlfriend and I knew for a fact she would _not_ be happy to see me. They had been dating for a couple of months, and I could tell she didn't like how close Mark and I were. I guess she had a hunch that once there had been something more than just friendship between us, even if only for a little while.

We reached the station. Just the short walk from campus in the sweltering heat was enough to make sweat prickle at the back of my neck. I tried to sweep it off discreetly.

"Maybe some other time. Thanks for inviting me, though."

"I don't want you to be alone tonight, moping around. Please, Lou, we need someone to crash into the drinks table." Mark was teasing me. That had happened once and I was _not_ keen on repeating the incident. I still hadn't managed to wash off the smell of booze out of the skirt I had worn to that particular party. Coincidentally, it was a black skirt with a pint pattern so I guess I had been asking for it.

"No thanks. I'll be fine, really. Tell Christy I said hello." I could sense Mark wanted to argue, but just then the tram heading my way came from behind the corner and I had to hurry to the right platform. "I'll see you on Monday!"

As the tram sped off, I waved to Mark who looked disappointed. I knew he meant well, but tonight I just wanted to be left alone. I didn't have the energy to pull off a fake smile for people who didn't care about me enough to want to know how I truly felt. I thanked god it was my day off from work as well.

After I shut the door to my flat, I collapsed against it in a fit of sobs. I had been holding myself together by a thread ever since it had dawned on me what day it was. But now, in the solitude of my own company, I could finally let go, the grief washing over me like a tsunami. My tears joined the churning of internal waves. I sat there for a good part of an hour, knees pulled up to my chest, shoulders slumped under the weight of memories. I remembered the sarcastic remarks that were carefully designed to hide his vulnerability; the gentle flutter of his good hand in mine; the way his words had released me from the shackles that had been cast on me years ago in the maze. But the good times weren't the only memories occupying my mind. I saw flashes of the bad days when he'd close up on himself, refusing to talk to anyone; the humiliation at the horse races; and that one night on a gorgeous beach in Mauritius when I told him I loved him under the infinity of the stars above us and he shot me down. But the failure of following through his last wish, not going with him to Switzerland, that was the hardest burden to bear. Sometimes the guilt grew to such proportions, the only thing I was capable of doing was to lie in bed, hoping the mattress would swallow me whole before I was crushed under the weight of failing the person I loved most.

* * *

Like all things, even tears must come to an end. Eventually, my shoulders stopped shaking. I picked up my broken self from the floor and headed for the kitchen to start preparing dinner. The butter on the frying pan filled my ears with a sizzling sound that drowned out all other noise while the mechanic work of peeling and chopping vegetables lulled me into a false sense of serenity. And if my eyes did tear up a little, I blamed it on the onions.

When I was putting the lasagne in the oven, the doorbell rang.

Puzzled, I put 40 minutes on the timer, and wiped my hands on a kitchen towel. I didn't bother taking off my apron with the floral pattern. Maybe it would make me look busy and whoever was behind the door would feel guilty for interrupting and would leave quickly. I prayed it was not Jehova's Witnesses.

My door didn't have a peephole so I couldn't check who the intruder was. I took a deep breath, hoping my eyes weren't too red and puffy. Then I opened the door.

A moment of silence, and then –

"Hello, Clark."

I slammed the door shut.

Suddenly I felt like I'd run a marathon. My heart was racing, my breathing was shallow and quick, the palms of my hands felt clammy and black dots appeared in my field of vision. I leaned against the wall while thoughts run amok in my brain.

 _Now you've done it, you've officially lost it._

 _Maybe the memories are playing a trick with your mind._

 _It_ has _been an exhausting day._

 _He could be a doppelganger._

 _Louisa Clark, stop acting like an idiot and open the bloody door. Didn't your mom teach you any manners?_

The last voice was the voice of reason and the one I should listen to. There was a man behind the door who was likely thinking I was the rudest person on earth for slamming the door shut with no explanation. It didn't matter if the man looked nearly identical to _him_ and had the same slightly raspy voice because there was no way he could actually _be_ him. I was being unfair and I needed to open the door.

 _It's too bloody big a coincidence he is also in a wheelchair._

No. It couldn't be _him_. _He_ was dead unlike the man waiting in the hallway.

I put on the fakest smile I had ever worn as I pushed the door open, talking away even before I was facing the man behind it.

"I'm so sorry, that was incredibly rude of me. It's just… you look very much alike with someone I used to know." I was avoiding actually looking at the man, fearing I would falter if I did. "I was just being silly because there's no way you could be him. You see, he–."

"Clark, it is me." His voice stopped me in my tracks. Like a whip, my eyes trained on him, trying to deny the familiarities between this man and… "It's me. Will."

There it was. The name I had been running away from during my waking hours but which haunted my dreams with a determination only the most dedicated athlete could rival. Uttered so softly I almost didn't catch it, the name hung in the air while my brain tried to process the situation.

"Please, Clark, say something."

No one could possibly imitate the way my last name fell from his lips. With such gravity that it made my rushed thoughts slow down for a moment.

"How are you here?" My voice quivered like the string on a bow after it let loose an arrow. I crossed my arms on my chest to stop them shaking as well.

"I used the elevator." He smirked and it was the smirk I had been searching for in all those other guys. Every atom in my body screamed it was not possible, but there was no denying it. I was standing face to face with Will Traynor in flesh. "This building is surprisingly wheelchair-friendly. I'd like to –."

"You are supposed to be dead."

The confident smile disappeared from his face, replaced by a rare look of uncertainty. Then it turned bitter.

"Funnily enough, Clark, that's exactly what your sister told me."

"Treena? She knew you're alive and she didn't tell _me_?" My voice had found its strength again and it was rising in volume. The longer I looked at Will, the more the shock caused by the situation faded. It was replaced by a boiling-hot anger which was something I had never experienced in my life before. I had the urge to hit something, preferably his face, but I gritted my teeth and fought against it.

"I made her promise not to. Look, let me come inside and I'll explain everything." He sounded desperate, the way I probably had sounded on that beach over two years ago when I had begged him to give me a chance.

"Why should I let a dead man inside my home?" I had never heard myself sound so cruel and cold. It shocked me. Then I saw Will wince at his shoulders and I felt a twisted kind of pleasure at that.

"Please, Lou." He rarely used my first name so I knew he was serious. "Just let me explain and then you never have to see me again if that's what you want."

He looked so earnest and vulnerable that I couldn't say no even if I was livid with him.

"I put lasagne in the oven. You have 35 minutes."

* * *

We settled down in the kitchen and I started preparing tea. I needed something to soothe my frayed nerves. Without asking if Will wanted some, I dug inside his bag and fished out his beaker.

"You have some nerve appearing on my doorstep today of all days." There actually wasn't a threshold at my door, which had often made me think about Will and how easy it would be for him to come and visit me if he was still alive. And now here he was. In my kitchen. Alive.

"How is this day any different from, say, tomorrow?" he asked, sounding confused.

I scoffed as I poured tea for both of us.

"Today is the second anniversary of your death. Or at least I thought it was. Clearly, I was mistaken."

Will had the sense to look ashamed. It annoyed me. I wanted to stay mad at him, but he made it difficult by seeming genuinely remorseful.

"I didn't realize. Sorry."

"Yeah, well. Why don't you explain the reason today _isn't_ the second anniversary of your death? You were hell-bent on going to Switzerland the last time I saw you."

The tea had cooled down enough that I dared to place the beaker in the cup holder on Will's chair. I brought the straw close to his mouth and then sat down on the other side of the table. Will took a sip before answering.

"I went down with pneumonia the day before our flight."

My hands froze in the middle of lifting the mug between them to my mouth.

"But you had it just before our trip to Mauritius! You couldn't have caught it again so soon, could you?"

Will laughed bitterly. I hated how it twisted something I had once cherished more than anything into a cold, harsh sound.

"It's not that uncommon, Clark. You know my immune system is weaker than yours to begin with. Add in the fact that my system hadn't fully recovered from the previous bout of pneumonia when my mother caught a cold and suddenly you have the ingredients for a disaster in your hands. And a disaster it was." Will looked me straight in the eye, an endless pit of pain behind his blue ones. "I was hospitalized for almost two months."

I set the mug down gingerly in fear of spilling the tea because my hands had started shaking. I had accompanied Will to the hospital enough to know how much he hated being there. It wasn't hard to imagine how he must've despised being confined to the place for weeks. My heart went out to him, and it was harder and harder to stay angry at him.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

A curtain of surprise fell down on Will's face.

"Why are you apologizing? It was in no way your fault, Clark."

I shrugged, not having an answer. My thoughts were a jungle I couldn't fight through.

"Anyway", Will continued after a short silence. He glanced at the digital clock on the counter, and I did, too. He had 23 minutes left. "I was in no state to fly even after being released from the hospital. I was trapped inside the annexe for a month. By the time I was deemed fully recovered, I actually couldn't go to Dignitas. Some documents had become outdated and I had to get new ones. You wouldn't believe how slow the process is. We were given an estimation of two more months before I was good to go." Will didn't look at me, sounding bitter once again. I wanted to hold him, but I didn't dare. I shouldn't get my hopes up. Maybe the reason for his visit was just to say a final goodbye. He'd be getting on a plane to Switzerland tomorrow and be whisked away from my life for the second time. He had come here only to rip my heart wide open and leave it like that, this time for good.

"And I never crossed your mind during those months? It never occurred to you that _I_ might want to hear from you?" I couldn't hide the hurt in my voice.

"Clark", Will said, exasperated, "there wasn't a day when I _didn't_ think about you. But as far as I was concerned, the pneumonia was just a minor delay in my plans. I was hell-bent – as you so gracefully put it – on going to Switzerland the moment all the documents were in order. Besides, you had already gone off to college. I didn't want you rushing back to that suffocating town because of me, like I knew you would have. It brought me joy, knowing you were out there, finally living the life you deserved."

"You think I deserved months and months of grieving?" I started, tears threatening in the corners of my eyes. I pushed them back resolutely. Will opened his mouth to say something, but I pressed on. "You think I deserved to fall on the brink of alcoholism because I couldn't deal with the guilt of not giving you a proper goodbye? Do you think I _deserved_ to fall apart for nothing earlier today because I thought you had been dead for two years?" I was practically shouting when I finished but I didn't care. The ball of pain I had been festering in the pit of my stomach for too long had turned painfully hot. Yelling at Will eased the burning sensation.

"I– I didn't know", Will whispered finally.

"No, you didn't. But you thought you knew best, didn't you?"

Will looked guilty and wouldn't meet my eyes, suddenly interested in the dents in the kitchen table. I had bought it used as I didn't mind the signs of previous life. Every pen mark was there for a reason. Every dent had a story behind it. One of my favourite things to do was to come up with them. The small heart done with a permanent marker at Will's end of the table was the doing of a young girl who had drawn it as a reminder she was worth loving even though the other kids in her class made her feel otherwise. A war fought with blueberries between two lovers had caused the purplish stains dotting the surface. It was a good table, one that had seen a lot of life and was still standing sturdily in spite of that. But Will Traynor's wandering gaze made me want to whisk out my best tablecloth to cover up the fact I didn't have a lot of money to invest on brand new furniture. The cheque Mrs Traynor had given me after Will's death had been spent to pay for my tuition.

Suddenly I realized something.

"It was you."

"Pardon?" Will asked, puzzled.

"The cheque your mother gave me the night she brought my stuff from the annexe. It was from _you_."

On the 16th of August two years ago, Camilla Traynor had arrived at our house with a few boxes filled with my meagre belongings, and an envelope. She told me the contents of the envelope were a thank you for the hard work I had put into taking care of Will. I tried to refuse but she was a woman who you couldn't say "no" to. So I accepted the envelope, not daring to open it in front of her. She had left with a brisk goodbye, ignoring my attempts at offering condolences for Will's passing. I hadn't seen her since.

Later that evening, I had opened the envelope and started panicking at the large sum Mrs Traynor had assigned to me. I almost ripped the cheque in half before Treena talked some sense into me. Without the money, I couldn't have afforded to study full-time.

It always bothered me afterwards why Mrs Traynor had been so generous although I knew she didn't like me very much. I also couldn't shrug off the feeling that she'd been oddly calm and collected for someone who had lost their son only days before. I didn't think even she could've pulled it off. Now, finally, I understood.

"Yes."

"But why?"

Will sighed. "I had ordained in my will a fair amount of money to you to set you free from monetary concerns. However, seeing as I _didn't_ die, the will didn't come to effect. But I wouldn't let my inability to even _die_ refrain you from going to college and living your life. So I told mother to give you a cheque with enough money for you to pay at least for your tuitions. Once I did die, you'd be able to access the account I had set up for you."

My mind was whirling with implications of what all of this could mean.

"But… you're still here. It's been way longer than two months and you're still here. What happened?"

I waited for Will's answer with baited breath. Maybe there had been complications with getting the paperwork in order. Maybe he'd caught pneumonia again or perhaps some other illness had prevented him from flying. There had to be _something_ that had only delayed the inevitable. Will was here just to give me the closure I had been yearning for so long.

 _But maybe, just maybe–_

I hushed the hopeful whisper before it could voice the thought that would doom me.

The silence stretched until it filled the space between us with tautness that could snap at any moment. There were 12 minutes on the clock and I felt like we were running out of time. The same anxiety that had grabbed me two years ago took hold of me once again.

Finally, Will chuckled. It was a faint, soft sound that filled my chest with warmth.

"I guess some of your infuriating positivity rubbed off on me after all, Clark."

"Do you mean–?" I didn't dare finish the sentence. I needed to hear it from him.

"I do, Clark. I'm not sure how, when or why it happened, but by the time all the necessary documents had been accepted by Dignitas, I found I didn't want to die. I realized this life _was_ worth living. I could still claim it as my own. This chair does not have to define me, just like you told me. I refuse to be defined by it."

As soon as Will finished, I stood up, walking slowly towards him. My heart was beating furiously, a deafening _thump, thump, thump_ in my ears. Will followed my every movement, but I didn't feel self-conscious. When I reached him, I took his beaker out of its holder and set it on the table behind me. Then, ever so carefully, I sat down on Will's lap, never breaking eye contact with him.

My right hand rose to trace the side of Will's face. I could see him fight an inner battle before he let his face lean against it.

"Why didn't you come for me then?" I asked softly.

There was a stretch of silence again, but I didn't mind. I was content with staring into Will's blue eyes, until he turned them away from me to the ceiling.

"Because I thought – and still do – that you deserve something better. _Someone_ better. You deserve someone who can hold you in his arms when you cry. Someone who can worship every inch of your body and give you unfathomable pleasure. Someone who can walk down the beach with you without the hassle of special equipment. There is someone out there who can give you all that, I'm sure of it. This broken body in this wheelchair might be worthy of life, but it could never be worthy of _you_."

If Will had been able to pull away from me, I could sense he would have. But I was having none of it. I took his head between the palms of my hands, gently yet firmly, and forced him to look at me.

"Will Traynor", I said, half exasperated, half amused, "for someone who despises people making decisions for him, you sure like to do it yourself. I have _never_ asked for any of those things. They could be nice, yes, but they're not the main point of relationships, at least not for me. I want someone who I connect with _mentally_. Someone who understands me. Someone who challenges my views and pushes me to my limits. _That's_ what's important to me. Don't you dare tell me that means less than the physical side of love."

A slow, shy smile crept across Will's face.

"Okay."

I let go of his face but reached for his right hand. Two puzzle pieces finally reunited.

"So what changed your mind about seeing me? Would that have anything to do with Treena?" I added when I remembered Will mentioning her earlier.

"It had everything to do with her."

"What happened?"

Will looked down at our joined hands. I felt the gentle squeeze of his fingers and I mirrored it with my own. He smiled.

"She saw me a week ago. Funny how it didn't happen earlier, the town is claustrophobically small after all, and I haven't exactly been hiding in the annexe. It feels empty without you. I haven't even seen your father and he works at the castle." Will glanced at me. "I know you weren't entirely happy with me blackmailing my father into hiring him, but he's done a good job. My father has grudging respect for him, although he would never admit it out loud."

I chuckled. "Good to hear."

"Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I was sitting in the castle gardens last Friday when out of nowhere this woman stormed at me, with a young boy in tow, yelling all sorts of things. I didn't recognize her of course, as I'd never met her before, but it didn't take long to realize it was your sister. You never told me how scary she can be. She probably would've hit me if it wasn't for Thomas being there. Instead, she called me a long list of very inventive names while she covered the boy's ears."

"Sounds like Treena."

Will smiled, but then turned serious.

"She also blamed me for many things I wasn't aware of. That I'd effectively ruined your life. That you haven't visited your parents in months because you don't want to be reminded of me." The last part was voiced as a question.

It was true, of course. After leaving for college, I had been back to my parents' place only a handful of times because I couldn't bear the memories the six months with Will had left at every street and every corner. The castle looming over the town everywhere you went was a constant stab in my heart, a reminder of my failure. Every weekend, mom would call me, begging me to come home. But it wasn't home for me any longer. It had become a tomb in Will's memory.

I told Will everything. The months of heartbreak, the nights spent drinking away the pain, the fruitless dates that had amounted to nothing but sobbing because I realized I would never find anyone who'd understand my mind as well as him. I sugarcoated nothing. I needed Will to know the extent of my hurt, the extent of my _love_ for him.

Will listened quietly. I started crying at some point, but I didn't wipe the tears away. They were simply another piece of evidence of how true my feelings were.

Once I finished, there were no dry eyes in the room. A few tears were running down Will's cheeks as well. I wiped them away with one hand, the other one holding on to Will's like a lifeline.

Will took in a shuddering breath. "Bloody hell, Louisa. I'm sorry. I had no idea. I… I'm sorry. If you can't forgive me after all I put you through, I'll underst–."

I almost fell off Will's lap when a sharp ringing noise filled the kitchen. Will looked over at the counter where the timer had gone off.

"Looks like our time's up. Do you want me to leave?" He raised an eyebrow, trying to look confident, but I saw the uncertainty in his eyes.

"No. Please, stay. But I do need to get the lasagne out of the oven." I climbed off Will's lap, regretting the void between my fingers the moment I let go of his hand. "Do you want some?"

"Does it have carrot in it?"

I smiled at him over my shoulder.

"You know it does."

* * *

It is a curious thing how attuned you can be to someone that even after two years apart you can tell exactly what they want. Will didn't need to tell me when he wanted a sip of water or another bite of food as I fed him. I knew what he needed instinctively. Between mouthfuls he recounted the meeting with Katrina so that I could eat at the same time. It all felt so natural I could barely keep the tears from spilling over. This time, however, they were tears of joy.

According to Will, Katrina would've wanted to tell me the news herself, but he had made her promise to wait at least a week so that he could arrange to come visit me himself. My sister had protested, thinking it was a bad idea, but eventually Will managed to talk her into giving him my address and a promise to keep quiet. He figured she would probably call tomorrow to see if he'd actually come.

After Katrina had stomped off with Thomas, Will had stayed in the garden until Nathan came looking for him – I was glad to hear Nathan still worked for him. Will had told Nathan to get them to Manchester as soon as possible. After a few feeble protests about Will's health and the complications of the trip, Nathan had been more than happy to oblige. He had disagreed with Will's decision not to contact me when he ended up in the hospital and they'd had a pretty big argument over it. Eventually they'd reconciled but the topic had caused an awkwardness in their relationship that hadn't been erased until Will's request for a trip to see me.

They had arrived in Manchester the evening before and stayed at a comfortable hotel nearby. Will had wanted to come here the first thing in the morning, but Nathan had reminded him I had classes during the day. So they had spent a few hours driving around the city and even went to a museum until Will had insisted it was time. Nathan had dropped him off in front of the building and…

"Now here you are," I whispered.

"Here I am."

I had just finished doing the dishes when Will came to the end of his story so I dried my hands before walking over to him. I knelt by his feet and took his good right hand between both of mine.

"And you're staying, right? You won't disappear from my life again, at least not without a proper goodbye?"

Will studied my face, searching for any signs of deception, but there were none. This was what I wanted. Him. _Us._

"I'll stay, Clark, if that's what you want."

"Of course that's wh–."

"But I need you to promise me something," he continued, cutting me off. There was a whirlpool of pain behind his blue eyes that threatened to pull me in. I knew then that the decision to live terrified him to no end. And yet here he was, determined to take the chance.

"I need you to promise that when this," Will looked down at his unmoving body, "gets worse – and believe me, Clark, it _will_ get worse – you will let me go. When I no longer can even sit in this chair or I have to be tube-fed, you have to be strong enough to come with me to Switzerland. If you can promise me this, I promise to stay as long as you'll have me."

I stayed silent for a long while, staring at Will's hand that once must've been so strong he could've intimidated anyone with just a handshake, while pondering over his plea. Would I be able to do it? To say goodbye when his condition deteriorated? It could happen tomorrow or ten years from now. Would it hurt less to let him go now rather than fall in love with him more deeply and then be forced to set him free?

I looked at Will who was waiting for my reply anxiously and I decided it didn't matter. It didn't matter how many days we'd get or how much losing him again would hurt. He was here now and I loved him, and I intended to love him for the eternity to come.

My mind set, I rose and once again sat down on his lap. I kissed his knuckles like I had two years ago in Mauritius, knowing as I knew back then that I could not let him go.

"I promise."

Will smiled then, widely, the force of it sending tingles from the tips of my fingers to my toes.

"I love you, Clark."

And just like that, something inside me was knocked over and the tears of joy I'd been holding in came rushing through. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, wetting the collar of his shirt with salt. I uttered "I love you" against his skin, repeating it over and over and he answered every time with an "I love you" of his own. And there we stayed, two people once broken beyond repair, finally whole again.

* * *

Later that night, after I'd texted Nathan to let him know Will was staying over for the night – everything he needed was in the bag that was always with him – we lay in bed, my head resting on his chest while my fingers traced mindless patterns on his abdomen. We were talking about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing at a relaxed pace between us, but even then, I could tell something was still bothering Will. It wasn't until we were both nearly falling asleep that I realized the cause of it, when Will whispered,

"Tell me something good, Clark."

I raised my head to look at Will in the dimmed lights of the city filtering through the blinds. I remembered what he'd been saying earlier in the kitchen, before the timer had cut him off. And although I was sure in his heart he knew the truth, he needed the words spoken out loud.

And so I told him.

I told him something good.

"I forgive you."

* * *

 **A/N:** And there it is, the first piece of fiction I've written in literally years. These two just wouldn't leave my brain until I gave them the happy ending they deserved. Please, let me know what you thought in the comments! Every single one of them will be greatly appreciated. :)


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